Throw Yourself in the Deep End

What canoeing taught me about leaving your comfort zone

The first time I capsized, I panicked. It’s an odd thing to do: willingly throwing yourself overboard. It was a mandatory requirement before I could properly join the canoe club here, as everyone has to complete a spraydeck test in the pool. I had ended up in that pool session quite by accident. All it took was one Wednesday night social where I agreed to tag along with a friend, and then there I was one week later: upside down, under the water, scrambling to get my legs free from the kayak so I might swim up for air.

I had never done anything like it.

Time pauses underwater. To willingly hold myself under went against every survival instinct screaming at me to get my head above the surface. 

One of the most cliché pieces of advice we all receive is to put yourself outside of your comfort zone. Going outside your comfort zone is easy; what no one talks about is how difficult it is to stay there.

As something of a perfectionist, being bad at something embarrasses me, especially when I’m surrounded by people who have had years of practice. It’s unreasonable, sure, but the feeling is real nonetheless. Adding on top of that the matter of knowing only one person, and partaking in a sport where if you majorly screw up, you could properly hurt yourself, I was almost miserable — despite repeatedly showing up of my own volition. At the time, I thought I did it to spend time with my friend, that she was a necessary crutch on which I had to lean. And anyway, I’d bought the membership already and I didn’t plan on wasting that money. That mentality might have initially kept me there, but it turned into something else. Everyone else went because they could do it, and they all seemed to know each other really well, so what business did I have being there? 

A year and a half on, I’ve realised I didn’t need an excuse. As much as my friend supported me, I went because I wanted to prove to myself that I could do it. I wanted to be good; I wanted to get better. Somewhere in between, I began to enjoy it. It sounds silly to say, it would be stupid to do something I didn’t enjoy, but it’s true. 

Interestingly enough, my fear of the sport to begin with — the endless ‘what-ifs’ — is what made me stick around. The level of trust you place into someone to save you when you cannot save yourself forms firm friendships. One kayak rescue is literally called the ‘Hand of God.’ Having faith that someone will be there to help you, whether in a pool or out on a river, is an incredibly unique bond. The close-knit nature of the sport can be intimidating from the outside, but once you show up and stick around, the reward of finally getting that skill, of being part of a team, of having a support system through the highs and the lows is unbeatable.

It’s improved me on an internal level, making me slightly more okay with imperfection, but it has had a physical impact too. Not only do I feel stronger, but I get to travel around Scotland, my home country, breaking the bubble of St Andrews when I most need it. Being outdoors — not quite touching grass, as we’re on the water, but close enough to it — is the best cure. Nothing beats the serenity of a loch on a sunny day, or the adrenaline rush from going down a rapid.

I think of capsizing now and I still feel panic, but I also feel calm. Underneath the surface, there is nothing else going on in my mind. Only the water around me and the comfort that, no matter what happens, I’ll get back up. So do the hard thing, and stick with it — you’ll be better off, even if it doesn’t feel like it for a while. Or, in the words of STAUCC: “get wet, get keen.”

Illustration from Wikimedia Commons